


the light.

by awfulmoons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awfulmoons/pseuds/awfulmoons
Summary: everyone needs to let in a little light once in a while.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pairing: fred weasley x reader (post-war) (fred lives au, obviously)  
> word count: ~4.3k  
> warnings: uhh this part is kind of sad?? next part will be fluffier tho. soulmate au (although the soulmate part is pretty much entirely in part 2). kind of cheesy bc apparently that’s my specialty now. fred only has one leg, but he’s alive so that’s what counts. also dead mom. not fred’s mom, reader’s mom.  
> a/n: named after the sara bareilles song because i can do that. also, for this fic to make sense, just know off the bat that reader didn’t go to hogwarts. not sure if homeschooling is a thing in the hp universe, but i’m making it one for this.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N) decides, in this moment, that she’s either very lucky, or she’s about to make the worst decision of her life. At this particular time, she’s not sure which it will be. All she knows is that she needs a job, kind of badly, and this place is hiring. By their own admission (aka a plea scrawled in red marker on a help wanted sign), they’re hiring _desperately_. (Y/N) takes this to mean that there’s a chance it could be the worst job she’ll ever have, but at least it’s a _job_. And, truthfully, she does need one unless she wants to drain all of her savings just to get by.

Plus, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes doesn’t look like an unpleasant place by any means. She figures that, as with any job involving customers, there’ll probably be days where she wants to seriously hurt someone, but at least she _expects_ that. And, for what it’s worth, she thinks it can’t be any harder than being an Auror, which can be literally life-threatening at times. Then again, when she was an Auror she’d mostly been able to hex the people who were pissing her off. She’s not so sure that the same thing applies in customer service.

Regardless of how she thinks this _might_ go, she figures it’s useless to think about unless she actually goes in and _applies_. So, she pulls open the door and steps through. It’s one of the busier stores that she’s seen all day, and it makes her understand why they might be hiring so desperately. At the front of the shop, behind a desk with a cash register is a tall, red-headed man who looks particularly overwhelmed with the queue of (mostly children) that’s weaving through the building. (Y/N)’s eyes widen. . . what is she getting herself into?

“Can’t be worse than dark wizards,” she mutters to herself. “Took down Antonin Dolohov, for Merlin’s sake. . .”

Despite her reservations, the need to have a job overrules anything else. (Y/N) chooses to wait in the queue, rather than just approach the desk to talk to the already overwhelmed looking man. Surprisingly, it moves fast, and she’s soon right up front at the desk. He observes her, noticing that she’s not carrying any merchandise, and she can only imagine how odd she looks.

“How can I help you?” he asks kindly, despite whatever mood he might be in.

“Er — I saw the sign. It said you were desperate. . . I figured why not,” (Y/N) says honestly. “I wasn’t sure if there’s an application or anything.”

“Not an official one,” he tells her. “It’s pretty much just my decision, and my brother’s. Mostly mine, though.”

“Oh,” (Y/N), “well, alright. Um, ask me anything I suppose.”

He nods. “Alright. Ever committed a crime?” (Y/N) just shakes her head. “What kind of schedule can you work?”

“Anything, really,” (Y/N) replies. “My last job didn’t allow for much of a personal life. I was an Auror, so it was. . . a lot of odd hours.”

“An Auror?” he asks, looking shocked. “Really?”

(Y/N) nods. “It just. . . isn’t for me. So I quit.”

After a moment of deliberation, which (Y/N) is sure just him wondering if she got fired for something audacious rather than quitting, he sticks his hand out to shake hers. “I’m Ron Weasley.”

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” she replies, shaking his hand.

“So,” he says, “when can you start?”

To say she’s shocked would be an understatement. She’d expected that the hiring process would be at least a little longer than a conversation that had barely lasted two minutes. Of course, she hadn’t expected it would be as extensive as the process of becoming an Auror, but still. _They must really be desperate_ , she thinks. For all they know, she could be some horrible person hiding dark secrets. Or, she could’ve been driven insane by her previous job. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.

“Wait,” (Y/N) says. “That’s it?”

“Well I’ll have to introduce you to George,” Ron says, “but other than that. . .”

“You’re serious?” she asks.

Ron nods. “The sign wasn’t lying. We’re desperate.”

“Clearly.”

At this point, (Y/N) really _is_ wondering if this place is harbouring some horrible secret. Maybe she should make a run for it and look for a job that isn’t so _desperate_. She’s sure even a muggle job could work, if only temporarily. Or she could always look for another job at the Ministry, just one that’s not so lively.

“I don’t mean to make it sound bad,” Ron tells her. “It’s only my brother and I. But I’m leaving, hopefully soon if you work out.” He pauses for a moment, and almost laughs. “Actually, it’s a bit like we’re trading jobs. I’m supposed to start training.”

“As an Auror?” (Y/N) asks, surprised. “That’s. . . highly coincidental.”

“I wanted to do it straight after the war,” he says, “but George needed help around here.”

“Ah,” (Y/N) says. “Well that’s nice of you, helping your brother out.”

“Big family,” Ron says. “It’s what we do. It was only supposed to be temporary, a few months at most. Well, you see how that turned out.”

The way Ron talks about it is cryptic, which doesn’t exactly comfort (Y/N) any. But, at the very least, she’s glad to know that Ron’s not running for the hills because he _hates_ the shop, it’s just because he wants to do something else. At the very least, (Y/N) can relate to that. She’s not as set on a certain path as Ron seems to be, but she mostly gets it.

“Well,” (Y/N) says, “I can start. . . whenever, honestly. I guess when your brother approves of me?”

“He’ll approve,” Ron says, sounding very confident. “I’ll make sure of it. But, if you want to wait a moment, maybe take a look around. I’ll finish up here and then go talk to George.”

“Oh,” (Y/N) says, suddenly reminded of the line behind her. She glances back, noticing a particularly impatient looking woman (a mother, (Y/N) guesses). “Right. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

So, whilst Ron’s finishing up the queue she takes a look around at all the products. It’s an interesting variety of things, including some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder that (Y/N) distinctly remembers having used on a few work assignments. But, beyond that, there’s some more light-hearted things; muggle magic kits (novelty items, apparently), trick wands, Wildfire Whiz Bangs, and much more. Some are typical things that would’ve been seen in any joke shop, but others are things that (Y/N)’s never seen before. No doubt new creations by the proprietor, or perhaps proprietors.

Only about fifteen minutes later, (Y/N)’s approached by not just Ron, but who she assumes to be Ron’s brother George. She deduces this not just because he’s supposedly the only other person working there, but because they share the same flaming red hair. Truth be told, (Y/N)’s not sure if she should be nervous. Ron had made it out to seem as though George has the final say, but he also had seemed optimistic about his own ability to make sure that his brother agrees.

“Oh,” she says, “hi. You must be George.”

“And you’re (Y/N),” George says, not questioning but absolute. “I hear you’re interested in working here.”

“I hear you’re desperate for someone to work here,” she says, not realising exactly what had slipped out of her mouth until it had already happened happened. She pauses, her eyes widening a fraction. “Uh, wow, I definitely did _not_ plan on saying that.”

To her surprise, George cracks a smile. “Ickle Ronniekins here is eager to leave. So, I suppose that _does_ make me desperate.”

“Very,” Ron interjects. “ _Very_ desperate.”

George looks sideways at his brother for a moment. (Y/N) thinks it looks a little bit like he’s going through all five stages of grief in just that one second. It’s like he’s not eager to have someone other than his brother helping out, but he knows that Ron won’t stick around forever. Either that or (Y/N) is just over-analysing things, which is definitely possible. It’s sort of a hazard of having been an Auror, she’s always watching out for things. . . signs.

“Well, I’m qualified,” (Y/N) says, “if that helps.”

“Over-qualified,” Ron interjects again, mostly to George. “She hunted dark wizards, George.”

“ _Hunted_ is a bit of an exaggeration, I think,” (Y/N) admits. “That would imply they’re clever enough to hide.”

“It’s not,” Ron insists, but (Y/N) again thinks it’s mostly for George’s sake.

“Well, you’re hired then,” George says, albeit not sounding thrilled.

  
  


Three weeks in, and (Y/N)’s mostly settled into life as a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes employee. Ron had left a week prior, staying two weeks just to make sure (Y/N) would stick. By some miracle, despite feeling quite a bit out of her depth, she’d managed it. One might think that being an Auror had given her the skills to deal with customers, but that would be wrong. She’d underestimated just how infuriating some people could be, specifically middle-aged women.

On the bright side, she’s discovered that George is fun to work with. He’s told her all about how he started the business with his brother — not Ron, but Fred — and how they’d never imagined it would get so big. Knowing that she was part of someone’s life-time wish was an interesting feeling, and (Y/N) found herself quite enjoying it. What she wondered most, though, is why Fred, who’d co-founded the shop, was nowhere to be found,

What she’d noticed, though, is that he sometimes talks about Fred in _past_ tense. At first, (Y/N) had thought he was dead, until George offhandedly mentioned something about the noise from upstairs, which was apparently made by Fred. From there, she realised that he only ever referred to Fred in past tense when talking about how the _old_ Fred had been. The old Fred had been this or that, but the new Fred is something else. (Y/N)’s never asked for details, figuring that it’s too personal for someone she’s only known for three weeks.

Instead she’s just deduced from the clues she’s been given. So far, she’s determined that _something_ happened to Fred during the war. It hadn’t killed him, but it’d changed him permanently. Her first thought had been PTSD, but the way George talked about it made it seem like more than something mental. After that she vowed to stop trying to figure it out. She’d know if she was meant to, obviously, and she was doing everyone involved a disservice by guessing.

Despite all the talking about Fred and thinking about Fred, (Y/N) had never actually _met_ the man. And, truthfully, she didn’t ever think she was going to. In the three weeks she’d been at the shop, he’d never come down from the flat above. Then, one afternoon, George had stepped out of the shop do to something, leaving only (Y/N) to keep a handle on things.

It had all been fine, up until she heard a large crash from above. Automatically, she assumed something bad happened. Considering the usual lack of activity or noise from the flat, it was out of the ordinary for something so loud. Occasionally she’d heard something drop, or Fred and George talking, but never anything like _this_. Of course, she grappled with whether or not she should go up. It wasn’t explicitly off-limits, but she also supposes something like that doesn’t have to be stated. Then again, Fred could be injured, and since George isn’t around to help. . .

In the end, she just decides that she’s going to make sure everything is alright and then deal with the consequences later. She makes her way through the door in the stock room and up the flight of stairs that she’s never bothered to look at, only to walk right into a living area. She’d expected there’d be another door to go through, at least, but apparently not. In lieu of knocking on a door, she knocks on the nearest wall, not that it does much good.

“Er — Fred?” she asks, almost timidly. “Are you alright?”

She hears nothing in response and, once again, fears the worst. So, despite her reservation, she tries to navigate through the unfamiliar flat. Then, finally, she comes upon Fred who seems to be just pulling himself up off the floor. As any sane person would, she feels like she’s invading his space. But, to be fair, she _is_ , and he doesn’t look overly pleased when he notices her.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, “I heard something, and George isn’t here, so. . .” She pauses, looking at him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he says, almost in a grunt.

“Right,” (Y/N) says. “Do you — do you need anything?”

“I did say I’m fine,” he responds flatly.

(Y/N) nods. “Sorry. I’ll — I’ll just be going then.”

Fred doesn’t say anything more, not that (Y/N) really expects him to. After all, she’s heard most of it from George. She’s heard how Fred’s going through a hard time, how he’s not really himself anymore. But, George at least says he’s working through it, that he’s gotten _better_. It does leave her wondering what he’d been like at the start, but then she reminds herself of her vow to _not_ think about it. Although it’s going to be particularly hard to not think about it, now that she knows exactly what had happened to change Fred so drastically. She figures that it would change anyone, something like that. It’d certainly change her, she thinks.

Not long later, when George comes back, she explains to him the situation. Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he _thanks_ her for checking on Fred. It’s certainly not the reaction she’d been expecting, but she’s glad that it’s a relatively positive one. And she’s not fired, which is a plus, considering that she’s grown kind of attached to her job.

  
  


It’s not until nearly a month later that (Y/N) sees Fred Weasley again. This time, surprisingly, it's when he heads _downstairs_. She thinks it’s the first time he’s left the flat since she’s been working there, but she’s not positive. It’s certainly the first time _she’s_ seen him outside of the flat, though. She tries to mask her shock, but she’s not so sure that it works. As hard as she tries to focus on finishing inventory, she finds it hard to ignore the fact that he’s standing there.

Thankfully, he speaks up when she doesn’t, “I should apologise.”

“Er — what?”

“The last time I saw you,” he says, “I was rude.”

Again, (Y/N) doesn’t mask her shock well. “Oh. Well, I mean, listen. . . I was an Auror, and now I work in customer service. It’s not the rudest anyone’s been to me so far, and it won’t be the rudest anyone will be to me from here on out.”

“Regardless,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she says, honestly. “I really wasn’t all that bothered, actually.”

She notices that, this time, he’s wearing a prosthetic leg. Or, at least, she _assumes_ it’s a prosthetic, considering he’d been missing one the last time she’d seen him. It’s mostly an unimportant detail, except for the fact that it leaves her wondering how he got it fitted. Since he’s not left in what seems to be a long time, she thinks someone must’ve come to him. The biggest question is who, though. She thinks that she’d notice someone other than George heading into the stock room to go upstairs, but apparently not.

“It’s nice to see you down here,” she says. “I get to see your actual face rather than just the big busts of you and your brother outside.”

“Bit much?” he asks.

“Just a little,” she says, “but I suppose it attracts attention.” She pauses for a second, expecting him to respond. When he doesn’t, she just continues. “So, are you headed out?”

Fred shakes his head. “Not today.”

(Y/N) finds it a bit odd that he says _not today_ , rather than just _no_. It’s like he plans on going out at _some_ point, just that he’s not ready yet. It makes her wonder what’s changed. George hasn’t told her anything, not that she expects him to spill every detail of his life. But, she figures she’d notice something major.

“Well,” (Y/N) says, “I can hang around if you want to talk.”

“It’s alright,” Fred says, “I’m sure you’ve got plans.”

“Not unless you count spending time on my couch as plans,” she says. “I haven’t got much of a life.”

“So George says,” Fred tells her.

Surprised, she asks, “He talks to you about me?”

Fred nods. “And he talks to you about me.”

(Y/N) thinks that’s fair enough. Although, she supposes that what Fred must be hearing is far more boring than what she is. George likes to tell her stories about how they were in school, all the schemes they pulled off (or didn’t), but she’s hardly got anything that interesting. She didn’t have much opportunity for mischief as a child anyway, what with being homeschooled. In fact, the only mildly interesting stories she can think of that George might be telling him have to deal with when she was an Auror. Even those are few and far between, really.

“It’s just a surprise,” she tells him. “I’m not very interesting.”

“I disagree,” Fred says.

The surprise hits her once again. George must be making things up, if Fred thinks she’s any type of interesting. Or maybe he’s getting her confused with someone else. Surely not Angelina, since they must know each other from school. But, then again, if not her, who? From what she’s seen of the people George knows, Fred also knows all of them. Other than her, of course. He knows of her, but she’d thought only barely.

“Well you’d be the first,” (Y/N) says. “I’ve lived a very boring life.”

It’s true, as well. Her mother and father had been so terrified of Voldemort that they’d kept her away from practically everything as a child. She was homeschooled; learned mostly from books and secret practice when her parents weren’t around. It wasn’t as though she’d been a recluse, but the people she’d known were just neighbours, and very few of them were near her own age.

“I wouldn’t call being an Auror boring,” he says.

“I suppose not,” (Y/N) replies. “But I quit that.”

“I did wonder,” Fred says. “Why?”

Quitting her last job is not something that (Y/N) talks about or even _thinks_ about frequently. She’s not told anyone, and the only reason she’d given when she left was that she wanted to move on. There were no specifics, although she’s sure some of her former coworkers had their own assumptions. It’s only natural, after all, to wonder. Being that, she’s not surprised that Fred’s curious. Not many people leave a job like that unless they’re grievously injured.

“It’s kind of a long story,” she says simply. “Not really worth listening to, if I’m honest.”

Fred doesn’t ask any further, and (Y/N)’s grateful for it. If she’s being honest, she’d rather narrate grass growing than talk about why she’d left. It sounds exaggerated, she knows, but the fact of the matter is that she’s not proud of it. She’d not done anything _wrong_ , of course, but she supposes that it couldn’t necessarily be called _right_ either.

“Tell me about you,” she says, to switch the subject. “All I hear is from George. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“What do you mean?” Fred asks, cautiously. (Y/N) guesses that he (wrongfully) thinks she wants to hear the story behind his leg.

“I mean what are you about, Fred Weasley?” she inquires, smiling at him. “What do you like to do? What are your life goals? Stuff like that.”

Leaning against the doorframe, Fred says, “You first.”

“Well,” she says, “um. I like muggle telly. Too much, probably, if I’m honest. And as for life goals, I’m not really sure. Actually I’ve got no clue.” She pauses, looking at him. “Your turn.”

He seems to deliberate for a moment before saying, “I like Quidditch. . . or _liked_ , I guess.”

“You don’t anymore?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I guess not.” (Y/N) doesn’t say anything, even though his answer isn’t really an answer. So, he continues. “This place was my life-goal, for a while. George’s too. Now we’ve got it. Or _he’s_ got it, I suppose.”

“You’ve got it too,” (Y/N) tells him. “I haven’t been here long but I know George would drop me in a heartbeat for you.”

Fred looks like he’s trying to smile, but ultimately just ends up grimacing. Still, (Y/N) appreciates the effort that he put into it. Especially since George has given her the run-down of what a hard time he’s had, she thinks it’s quite the feat. She smiles at him, again, but not too brightly. She figures that it’d probably be a little off-putting if she were to just grin at him like the Cheshire Cat.

He changes the subject then, like they’re getting too close to something he doesn't want to talk about. “You should get home. It’ll be dark soon.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” she tells him softly. “Never have been.”

“I’m sure your couch will be missing you,” he insists.

(Y/N) realises then that he's probably through talking, but trying to tell her in a nicer way. She both appreciates it and understands it. After all, it’s a skill she’d learned well not too long ago. So, she calls it a night and heads out. If he’s up for it, they’ll talk again. And, if not, she supposes that's fine too.

Surprisingly enough, Fred’s trips down to the stock room become semi-regular. It’s not a daily occurrence, and they mostly happen when George is around, but every once in a while he catches (Y/N) by herself. They become friends in a totally casual sense: she doesn’t expect that he’ll come and ask about her day, and just takes it as a surprise when he does. (Y/N) decides that they're _kind of_ friends, or maybe somewhere between friends and acquaintances, leaning more toward the former than the latter.

George regards it with a sense of surprise as well, but attributes it to (Y/N)’s near-constant presence at the shop. But, it still remains odd to him that she’s the only non-family member that he bothers to talk to. Of course, he never mentions this for fear of pushing his brother backward rather than forward. Who he does mention it to is (Y/N). She plays it off like it's not a big deal, but it really comes a shock to her. Why her? Why not someone he’s known longer? Surely he’d be more comfortable? But, in the end, she never asks him either.

The biggest surprise of all comes when Fred walks out of the stock room onto the actual floor of the store. He smiles too, mostly at George, but also doesn’t falter when someone stops him to ask a question. (Y/N) begins wondering that night whether or not she should start looking for another job, only to be told that she absolutely should _not_ , because both brothers want her to stay regardless. She only smiles in response, insisting that she wouldn’t have gone without a fight anyway (although, she totally would have).

“So,” (Y/N) says to Fred one night after George leaves for a date with Angelina, “you’re coming up for air.”

Fred nods. “I have to. I can't keep. . . living like how I was. It’s taking a toll on everyone. Me, my family. . . everyone that matters.”

“I get it,” (Y/N) says, as casually as possible. “I’ve been there.” Fred gives her a look; shocked mixed with confusion. She'd never mentioned it, of course, so it’s no wonder that he’s shocked. “My mom was killed. She tried her hardest to never get involved, but somehow. . .” She pauses for a moment, sighing. “Anyway, I didn’t take it well.”

“I’m sorry,” Fred says, softly. “George never—”

“George doesn’t know,” (Y/N) says. “I never said anything. But I’m alright now, mostly. There are better days and there are worse ones, I’m sure you understand.”

Fred nods. “I do. I just — I never would’ve guessed. You're so. . . shiny, and happy. Like the sun.”

(Y/N) smiles at him, as shiny and happy as she can muster. “My mom used to say that too. She told me I was her ray of sunshine.” She pauses for a moment, and then looks at him very seriously. “But, listen. You’ve got to do it for you, not anyone else. I know it can feel like you're drowning, and you’ll only go deeper if you’re trying to please everyone around you.”

Fred can only nod again, not knowing what to say beyond that. (Y/N) returns to inventory, not necessarily wanting to bare anymore of her soul than she already has. There’s silence for a few moments, in which (Y/N) tries to focus on something _other_ than her own personal trauma. It’s hard, of course, to stop thinking about it once she's started, though.

Fred provides some form of solace, at the very least distracting (Y/N) when he says, “Thank you.”

In response she just says quietly, “Anytime.”


End file.
